


But to Align We Must Converge

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: BDSM, D/s, Kink, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-02
Updated: 2009-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:37:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a repost from <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink_meme/3516.html?thread=3016892#t3016892">here</a> at the <a href="http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=st_xi_kink_meme"><img/></a><a href="http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=st_xi_kink_meme"><b>st_xi_kink_meme</b></a>.  Prompt was for these three characters + breathplay.  My second attempt at Trek fic, oh boy.</p>
    </blockquote>





	But to Align We Must Converge

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost from [here](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink_meme/3516.html?thread=3016892#t3016892) at the [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=st_xi_kink_meme)[**st_xi_kink_meme**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=st_xi_kink_meme). Prompt was for these three characters + breathplay. My second attempt at Trek fic, oh boy.

"Stop."

There's a lot of weight behind a word.

McCoy thinks this as Jim turns, hesitates a moment, catches Chekov's steady, unwavering gaze, the one that makes it clear that there is no doubt in Chekov's mind that Jim will do as he's told. There's no doubt in McCoy's mind, either, but then he knows the effect the navigator has on his captain. He knows it quite intimately.

Jim's hand drops from its rough grip on McCoy's shoulder, his hands fall to rest in a loose hold behind his back, and his eyes soften, locked on Chekov's. Chekov gives a slight downward tilt of his head, and Jim sinks smoothly to his knees. McCoy rolls his shoulders, re-composes himself, and steps towards Chekov.

Thinking about the situation from an outsider's perspective, McCoy would consider Chekov's role in their pseudo-relationship highly improbable. Spock would say illogical, if McCoy were far enough off his nut to present the situation to the Vulcan. He is decidedly not.

It often starts like this, some semi-violent kissing and a grope here and there in one or the other's chambers. There's not a clear dynamic when it's just he and Jim—good-natured ribbing segues into something more physical and Jim fights against it as he always did before Chekov entered the picture. But then, Chekov comes into the room and something changes, predictably. His presence not only pushes Jim into that part of his mind that only Chekov can access but at the same time gives McCoy a firmer foothold.

If McCoy were a jealous man, he might have a problem with this, but he doesn't really. His mind is too busy with scientific curiosity, too busy being fascinated by Chekov's abilities and by Chekov himself. On the bridge, he's still the same incredibly competent boy genius with the earnest, beaming smile, but here that side of his personality switches off, and something secret, something sacred emerges. Truth be told, McCoy finds himself thinking about that intimate side of Chekov more often than he'd care to admit, a side that he's privileged to witness. In this space, Chekov's smile goes unseen, his lips soften to a neutral expression—vaguely displeased, always commanding. He points to the bed and Jim crawls there. McCoy simply watches.

"Leonard," Chekov murmurs, his voice matching the soft cadences of a lover's. His hand comes up to fondly touch the side of McCoy's face, and his lips brush not teasingly but with a familiar affection. Sometimes McCoy thinks Chekov's intuition cuts too deep, that his knowledge has potential to bruise. At those times, he fills his flask with brandy and locks the door. But at other times, it is welcome.

"I want him in your lap," Chekov says softly, too soft for Jim to hear. There's so much to fill in the gaps and shadows of that simple sentence—the knowledge they both hold without looking that Jim is on the bed, kneeling with his knees apart, hands clasped tighter now at the small of his back; the fact that Chekov will want him naked; the fact that Chekov will want to fuck him. McCoy knows that Chekov likes to see Jim's face as they fuck, just as Chekov knows that McCoy prefers not to.

As for McCoy's role in their habitual ménage, it is Chekov who created and Chekov who holds it perfectly in the balance. He is not an equal dominant partner, exactly, for Chekov sets the terms and gives the instructions, and McCoy has never bothered challenging them. Nor is he the middle of the proverbial sandwich. _What_ he is, exactly, is not a known quantity, but he trusts it, just as he trusts that Jim will hold position with Chekov here, hold still as McCoy lifts one calf at a time from the mattress to remove his boots, as he tugs the gold shirt up and over Jim's head, as he tugs the regulation trousers down over his thighs. He doesn't look up as he does these things, but he feels Chekov's presence there, at the foot of the bed, his eyes locked on Jim's. He knows that something passes between him that he is not privy to and yet simultaneously an essential part of. He pulls Jim back into his lap, pushes the trousers away, lets Jim sprawl there a moment in his nakedness.

There is an intentional vulnerability, the firmness in Jim's jaw mismatched with the stillness of his body, his absolute silence. Chekov demands this silence until he requests otherwise, and it has always been a powerful element of their encounters. It's not infrequently in day-to-day life that McCoy wants to shove Jim up against a wall or a console and tell him to shut the fuck up, but it's Chekov that can do it with a word.

As Chekov watches, McCoy's hands map Jim's body, thighs to hips to sternum, chest, shoulders. He's put on some bulk lately, coming even more into himself. McCoy's hands brush more gently as they follow the rise of Jim's neck on either side, stopping at the ears. A sharp intake of breath, and then McCoy's right hand slides around, resting in a gentle V at the throat.

It has begun.

Chekov is entirely predatory as he joins them on the bed, fully clothed. He kneels between Jim's splayed thighs and lifts his cock from the sleek trousers, holding it in his palm, displaying it for Jim. McCoy hears the faint sound of Jim's tongue swiping over the bottom lip, and his own cock twitches. Jim positively _salivates_ for Chekov's cock, McCoy knows this from experience, from other scenes in other positions. He's watched Chekov torture Jim for hours, keeping it just out reach. This time, Chekov starts a steady stroke right away, and if Jim moves just a centimetre forward, pressing against McCoy's hand, he doesn't make a note of it. He's pretty sure Chekov knows.

Chekov spends maybe ten minutes like this, just meeting Jim's eyes and jerking his cock. McCoy isn't sure how he knows, but he can almost _feel_ Jim sinking deeper into himself, the show Chekov's putting on almost hypnotic to the one whose need for him is almost obsessive. There's another sharp inhale when Chekov finally reaches for the lubricant, swiping a greasy finger up and down Jim's hole with an almost disinterested expression. McCoy finishes this part, pushing two fingers in without too much thought for foreplay, just stretching the opening enough to avoid any damage. His touch is clinical, not so much because of his profession, but because Jim likes it that way. He's figured that out through trial and error, that Jim basks in Chekov's severe gaze as his best friend opens him up with no more display of emotion than any doctor giving a prostate exam. McCoy's not one to question someone else's kinks, and so he does the job and then pulls his fingers out, the other hand tightening as Chekov drives steadily in.

Sometimes the silence is unnerving. He can hear the rate of their breathing, sometimes even a heartbeat, and he can observe the way their breath comes to align as they fuck, Jim always matching Chekov rather than the other way around. It's here that he begins to do his job, grip tightening ever so slowly, millimetres of movement carefully measured out to feel like a vice when in truth the pressure is only moderate. Chekov trusts him with this, knowing that McCoy will not accidentally damage Jim's trachea or even come close. Chekov provides the psychological effect while McCoy offers the physical pressure, and it is quite an effective match. McCoy pictures their breathing rates as two lines on a graph, coming together and then separating as he increases the pressure, lengthening the spaces he allows between inhales. There is something cruel in it when he thinks that way, but seeing no complaints, he doesn't have it in him to stop. At first Jim breathes shallowly against the pressure, but then he falls into it, matching McCoy's movements, breathing only when a breath is given. McCoy suspects that has a lot to do with the ice of Chekov's eyes.

When the two men collapse against each other in McCoy's lap, Jim's orgasm coming hard on a silent fifteen-second press against his throat just moments after Chekov's, McCoy lets his scientific brain go lax with his fingers. He closes his eyes and feels the heavy sprawl of limbs, his cock full against Jim's lower back but he's not worried about that. He knows that Jim will give him what he needs out of gratitude, later. It's only after a moment of stasis that he listens to their breathing re-align, lets his eyelids slowly open. Chekov's eyes meet his with a warmth that always throws him a little off balance, even as Chekov's hand lovingly strokes Jim's thigh. The other slender pale hand comes to touch McCoy's cheek, and for all his observational skills, there is perhaps something Dr. McCoy has missed.

But if Chekov does not bother to mention the alignment of McCoy's own breath to that of the captain and the navigator, perhaps he cannot be blamed.


End file.
